


You Can Follow

by Castillon02



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Early in Canon, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: Geralt doesn’t like wolves, he doesn’t like surprises, and he doesn’t like Jaskier. Really.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 384





	You Can Follow

They hear the wolves from closer than usual that night, the pack howl echoing in the forest around them. Five adults, sounds like, and a couple of pups whose higher voices keep going for a few moments after the older wolves stop. Jaskier doesn’t smell scared, like any sensible human would; he only smiles and plays a trill on his lute as if to howl back, as if a hungry wolf’s teeth wouldn’t tear his singer’s throat open just as well as they would a deer’s. 

“They had choirs before we did,” Jaskier tells him, catching his look across their small fire’s dying embers. “And they’re far better company than that innkeeper. In fact, is there anything that wouldn’t be better company?” He sings in a low voice, “ _A fly will bite you, it’s true_... _but an innkeep will spite you and you’ll rue_...rue something. Hmm...” 

Geralt had been waiting for some idiot’s prejudice to pry Jaskier away from him with the temptation of a room full of clean sheets, a soft bed, and no Witcher. Easy to ride off in the night that way. Instead, Jaskier had swept out of the inn alongside him with a tirade about prejudice on his lips and no problem at all sleeping in the monster-infested forest where Geralt will earn his pay in the morning. 

Geralt frowns. Even after a few weeks of traveling with a Witcher, Jaskier has apparently failed to absorb 1) the slightest ounce of self-preservation, and 2) the inherent unfairness of humanity. Was he so stupid at Jaskier’s age? 

He can’t do anything about the second thing, but the next day, before he leaves, he baits two steel traps around the camp. He has an arachas to hunt, so venomous that he can’t possibly take Jaskier with him, and coming back to a wolf-devoured bard would be messy. If the wolves get bold, they should go for the traps first, alerting Jaskier so he can arm himself and take shelter with Roach. 

(Most animals know better than to try to mess with Roach.) 

It shouldn’t be a problem. It’s been a fertile year, and there are plenty of deer to sate a wolf’s hunger. Still. Caution can’t hurt. 

\---

For some monsters, striking close and fast is ideal. For the spider-like arachas, with its corrosive vapours and its many sharp limbs, Geralt makes good use of his bombs and his best crossbow bolts, attacking from a distance. He has Golden Oriole in his system to fight the arachas toxins, and insectoid oil on his silver sword; the arachas goes down easy once its venom sac collapses and he can get close enough to strike the killing blow. 

It’s a good hunt; takes a while, but barely leaves a scratch. He takes the head to show the alderman and harvests what he can from the corpse. Arachas parts can be useful for decoctions, maybe even for money if he can find a discerning herbalist. 

This is what it means to be a Witcher: preparing for anything. Witchers that aren’t ready aren’t Witchers anymore—they’re dead. 

\---

On his return, he finds one of his pressure traps sprung but empty, the metal teeth of it bloody. The trail of wolf blood leads right towards camp. He can hear Jaskier chattering away like he sometimes does to Roach, which means he’s fine. He unsheaths his steel sword and steps more lightly anyway. 

Their clearing comes into view. Jaskier is not talking to Roach. Roach is on the other side of the camp, in fact, nose down as if she’s grazing, but instead of chewing she’s eyeballing Jaskier with all the scorn a horse can muster. 

Probably she’s doing that because Jaskier is talking to a massive gray wolf, as long as Jaskier is tall, stretched out on its side on the grass. 

The wolf’s tail swishes gently, its belly exposed, its half-lidded brown eyes occasionally glancing up at Jaskier. It is a picture of canine relaxation. It also has a bandaged paw, because of course it fucking does. 

Jaskier sits with his arms dangling around his knees, his hands—his everything—not far enough away from those crushing jaws. “I know, darling,” he’s saying, “it must be difficult to raise a bunch of pups when there’s that terrible spider beast around. It’s called an arachas, you know.” 

(Geralt suppresses a snort. Jaskier had learned what an arachas was about eighteen hours ago.) 

“Well, no need to fear!” Jaskier continues. “Geralt will sort it out and your family will be much safer. I bet you’ll have half a dozen pups next year!” 

The wolf chuffs. 

“Yes, I expect your hands—paws—jaws?—are full enough as it is with the two you’ve got. But you’ll have a lot more experience by then, I’m sure. You’ll be an expert. And your pack will be so fierce!” 

It’s the same tone of voice Jaskier took with the children in the last village when he assured them that they would all grow up to be brave warriors or clever musicians or whatever else they wanted. He sang a silly song with each child’s name and desired occupation in it, so catchy that the children chanted it after them as they walked out of town. 

(One of the children had wanted to be a witcher. “O’ valley of plenty!” she’d sung in her high voice, swinging a stick around like a sword.

“‘Monster fighter’ has better rhymes,” Jaskier had said, thank the gods.) 

Now that Geralt looks closer, it does seem like the wolf is young. Full-grown, but hardly any scars criss-crossing its gray coat, no silver at its muzzle. Maybe it and Jaskier are the same age, developmentally. Whatever the case, Geralt is getting tired of waiting for it to slaughter his bard and leave. Still in the shadows, he cracks a branch beneath his foot. 

Jaskier blanches. “Time to go, dear,” he tells the wolf. “Back to child-minding, I’m afraid. We’ll be out of your territory soon.” He hops up and makes a shooing gesture. 

The wolf’s tongue lolls. 

Geralt’s hand tightens on his sword. 

Then the wolf scents the air, yawns with all its teeth showing, and flows to its feet. It bumps its shoulder against Jaskier’s colorfully-clothed hip before padding out of the clearing. It seems...oddly unburdened, still, muscles loose and confident as it trots away. 

“Good hunting!” Jaskier calls after it, smiling and waving like an idiot. 

Injured wolves are vicious. By all rights, Jaskier should be dead. How did he calm the beast without getting savaged? And gods above, a Witcher, married women, a literal wolf—is there any unsuitable man or beast that Jaskier can’t or won’t cozy up to? 

“You really will talk to anything,” he says to Jaskier, walking into the camp and sheathing his sword. 

Jaskier grins at him, or bares his teeth, maybe. “I kept up my end of the conversation and the wolf did some grunting and groaning. Not much different from my usual audience.” 

Jaskier’s snappiness reminds Geralt so much of Lambert that he forgets himself and pointedly replies, “Hmm,” letting the self-aware wryness curve the corners of his eyes. 

Jaskier cackles. “I knew you had a sense of humor!” He sounds delighted: a man happy to please a Witcher, heal a wolf, and sleep on the ground instead of in a rude innkeeper's bed. A man who’s still alive. 

Geralt has potions, weapons, and magic at his disposal, but he’s starting to think that none of his training has prepared him for Jaskier. And a good Witcher should be prepared for anything. 

Maybe Jaskier can stick around a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Did Jaskier sneak poppy milk into that wolf's jerky snack? Is he just that charming? Geralt will never know. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome.


End file.
